poems, memoirs, and essays

Poem 14 or so, National Poetry Month: Feral

Feral

There. She’d used it—that word she didn’t
know but that it had some connotation—
animal rabidity or raw sexual delight, a
natural obsession, perhaps—with poets
of greater ilk who had plumbed morbid
depths, had let soil or blood blacken their
hands until pages or keyboards were plumb
smeared with it. If that’s what it took, well,
then—she too could use that word in
forensic proof of standing in sludgy excre-
scence. It tasted rakish on her tongue,
curled off in mundane air, but ears refused
the groveling. They did not seem to care.

About c.l.beyer

Welcome to this screen space, friend. These words are created in Seattle now, where I live with my husband and three sons. Kansas prairies and farms will bleed out through what I write, along with the mystery of God, who forever insists on communing with me.
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